


A Fetish in Red [Lipstick]

by sequins_stripes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fetish, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequins_stripes/pseuds/sequins_stripes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With no case to occupy his mind, Sherlock is distracted by a favorite women's accessory.  In a hot, empty 221B, Sherlock might as well dispense with a certain urge while accessing both memories and fantasies in the Mind Palace.  A hint of Adlock but ultimately Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fetish in Red [Lipstick]

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic -- my first posted fic at all. Of course the one I finish first is a *dirty* one. I have a few more, all inspired by Moffat's contention that Sherlock is "more human" at the end of Series Three. I try to stay canon-compliant and this one definitely occurs post-HLV. I do also incorporate my own head canons in my work -- here the red lipstick fetish and Sherlolly, obviously, but a few others will pop up and will feature in later pieces.
> 
> Please enjoy and I apologize in advance for any spelling/grammatical errors, errant Americanisms, and any frankly appalling writing. I own nothing.

His irritation was palpable, if only to the poor wooden steps themselves, as he stomped up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. “What an utter disappointment” he huffed, knowing full well this time that John was not trailing behind him. The case had been solved – no, the case had been revealed to be not even a case. The solution was so very apparent that Lestrade, even Anderson stalking in the bushes outside the office building, had seen it immediately. The scheming mastermind’s bolt hole was, in reality, a make-shift pied-a-terre for a pathetic man’s bit of stuff. Still-wet, cheaply made lingerie hung on the back of the desk chair, evidently recently washed out in the cupboard sink. The overbearing scent of a candle entitled “racy rose romance” or some such nonsense lingered in the air. Though it held no special importance to the resolution of the matter, he made particular note of a well-worn red lipstick, curved distinctly to fit the owner’s mouth from repeated application. John, swallowing a smirk at his best friend’s disappointment and discomfort, had texted Mary to swing by to pick him up after she finished the shopping. The dejected detective rode home in the back of the cab, brooding equally over the lack of worthy opponents and the existence of alarmingly pink satin knickers with heart-shaped cutouts in the world. “Sentiment! No, not sentiment…sex. Tedious…pointless!” He then paused under the door frame, holding his breath to confirm his hasty deduction on the stairs that Mrs. Hudson was out. No hoover running; no radio chatter; no hoo-hoos or giggles or herbal soother-induced snores. The flat lay silent with the absence of human activity. Sherlock was alone.

He swept into his chair, the coat still billowing about him, and pulled his knees in close under his chin. The peculiar stance, a quirk leftover from childhood, was usually comforting but now he chaffed under the Belstaff wool fibers. John hadn’t needed to say anything that morning; he was more than aware that it was simply too damn hot in London to be wearing it regardless of the ever-present need for a good popped collar. He grimaced, bounced from the chair, and threw the blasted, beloved thing to floor in one graceful motion. His suit and shirt still clung to him uncomfortably in the heat, even after shedding the coat. The noisome lingerie and the sad little office space had already been deleted from the hard drive but the lipstick remained. No, not the stick; now just the impression of a woman’s lips stained that deep primary red. His cheeks flushed with a warmth not caused by the summer weather. Overcome with a new strain of irritation, he rolled his eyes as he contemplated his crotch. His shaking hands had once betrayed his fear in Baskersville; his erect penis slightly more regularly and certainly more inconveniently betrayed his arousal by women wearing red lipstick. Even as his eyes scanned back to the discarded coat, he begrudgingly opened a specific door in his Mind Palace.

_He is sprawled out. The floor rocks and spins beneath his back. He is both falling away and drawn up to her. Every spot the riding crop met his skin stings with pain, burns with pleasure. The coat, his coat still hangs on her shoulders but has fallen open revealing the curves of her creamy white breasts and the deep V at the meeting of her thighs. He fumbles to press his lips against the black leather of the crop now caressing his face as he cannot reach to kiss her lips. Perfect mouth moist with blood red lipstick. “This is how I want you to remember me…” The Woman purrs._

Sherlock shook his head and the present physical world shifted back into focus. “Inconvenient” he whined at the vivid memory, except, of course, that it wasn’t. He had no case to solve and had no privacy to protect in the empty building on Baker Street. It was as good a time as any to dispense with that occasional but not as yet entirely delete-able…urge. But he wasn’t above fibbing even to himself when he thought the circumstances called for it. He looked to kitchen and wondered aloud if he was hungry. He dismissed the thought without checking the fridge, knowing that no chips, crisps, or fried potatoes of any kind would be found.

He strode straight through into his bedroom, the door wide open and the bed still unmade. As he peeled off his suit jacket and dumped it, too, unceremoniously on the floor, it briefly occurred to him that Mrs. Hudson must pick up his clothes after him much like she silently brought the morning tea. Otherwise all his dark suits would be piled in a heap rather than hanging crisply in the wardrobe. Despite obvious evidence to the contrary, he made a show of looking down to check whether the thought of his surrogate mother had calmed his erection. The visible bulge strained back at him, almost mocking him. “Right. This problem requires a cigarette. There is simply no other solution.” He reached for his best dressing gown, the blue silk… _which The Woman had casually wrapped around her naked body as she had set about seducing_ … “OH FOR GOD’S SAKE!” His hand dropped from the silk sleeve and started at the zip of his trousers instead.

Sherlock, naked but no cooler than before, flung himself petulantly onto the rumpled bed. Cradled by his white sheets, he sighed contemptuously once more at his cock. He gave up identifying it correctly as a penis in his head, for this was now a cock. First and last an object of sex, bright pink and throbbing, demanding attention and touch. He fidgeted a bit, scooting his well defined bum about and spreading his legs to achieve the optimal angle. Then one hand ran through his dark curls and rested above his head as the other found an easy rhythm pumping at the long hard shaft.

_He is off-put upon discovering which room of the Palace he now occupies. Fact and memory are replaced by impression and fantasy. As always he is first aware of the red lipstick but it graces a mouth he is not expecting. The lips look plump, bee-stung under the creamy, slightly shimmery pigment. He immediately recognizes that mouth, though it no longer trembles with shyness and then shame as it did on that awful Christmas night. Instead, it is drawn into an “O,” sweet, cheerful, and wanton all at the same time._

He inhaled sharply and opened his eyes. He tried to make some –any!- argument why this fantasy was the wrong fantasy. But again he capitulated. Arousal coursed through his bloodstream as affecting as any dose of cocaine and it would not be denied. He whimpered and closed his eyes.

_Molly Hooper is lying across the bed, her arms extended fully to each side, her legs pulled up towards her chest with her knees pressed coyly together. The bed is nondescript, the details of the room don’t register – he is entirely enthralled with every inch of her body. Her long brown hair falls softly around her shoulders. Her small, pert breasts are cupped by a frilly black lace bra. The knickers don’t match – they are boy-cut pants in sensible cotton but printed with a whimsical mutli-colour floral pattern. The contrast between the vampy bra and innocent pants just adds to her allure and Sherlock finally climbs onto the foot of the bed, kneeling before her and gently pulling her knees apart. She doesn’t resist and he notes the tiny white bow at the waistband as he nimbly peels the cotton away._

_He settles in between her legs, anchoring her on either side. Her hips and thighs are slender but still pleasantly soft and full under his long searching fingers. She giggles and mews like a kitten at each ticklish brush of his curls or lips or tip of his nose against her smooth pale skin. He starts a very deliberate row of kisses from the tender crease of her inner thigh through the soft fuzz patch of manicured pubic hair ending at the fleshy pink folds of her sweet wet cunt. He slides his hands underneath her, cupping her round bum to pull her closer to him but she sits up. They are both kneeling on the bed, her small hands stroking his compactly sculpted shoulders and chest. He instinctively reaches around to unhook the black bra and she deftly shimmies out of the straps. Her breasts bounce as they are released, the nipples hard and flush from her pleasure down below._

_Now the perfect red mouth is forming words but Sherlock can’t process them. He follows her body’s motions directing him to lie back on the bed. In one fluid motion, before he can protest, Molly swings her leg over him to straddle, flips her hair out of her face, and dives straight for his throbbing cock. Sherlock is transfixed – at the waves of pleasures reverberating through his member, his pelvis, his limbs and at the sight of her red lips sliding up and down. Humming faintly, she draws a figure eight with her tongue along the shaft and he fights to keep from thrusting hard, selfishly into her mouth. Presently she pulls up, smiling at him while she keeps a hand stroking firmly, slick with a mix of her saliva and the beads of pre-cum dribbling from the head. The lipstick has wantonly smeared about her face, no less sexy but more primal now than vamp. Then she ducks back down, sucking his left testicle entirely into her mouth. He groans at the new sensation and reflexively rotates his feet at the building warm pressure in his belly. Molly reads the sign of his constricting thigh muscles and returns to Sherlock’s cock before…_

The sharpness of his cry startled Sherlock. In the hazy afterglow, he felt a tingle of embarrassment – at thinking of Dr. Molly Hooper in that way, at being rather “ungentlemanly” in his self-driven fantasy, at the appalling mess of white sticky liquid sprayed about his groin and up his abdomen. Despite the intensity of his climax, his prior drug use meant the chemical effects wore off quickly and he rapidly descended into a new well of irritation with himself, Molly (both real and fantasy) and the frankly appalling state of the sheets. Wishing to avoid soiling anything else that would require cleaning without Mrs. Hudson’s intervention, he stomped naked out the hall and into the bath. Soaking in the tub, Sherlock finally felt clear-headed for the first time that afternoon. He resolved not to take out his complex bevy of emotions (which would undoubtedly reduce down to rudeness) over his fleeting but recurring “interest” in Molly on the pathologist herself the next time he saw her. Of course, Molly had long stopped lingering in corners, offering coffee, and, sigh, rushing off to apply red lipstick. If he were rude now, she’d probably slap him. Yes, straight across the face – _his left cheek stinging where her small delicate hand had met_ …

“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE!”


End file.
